


Gonna Get Back to You

by megyal



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Companionable Snark, Cuddling & Snuggling, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 16:31:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7691668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets one of those awful mosquito-born viruses; Barnes, with his extensive background in Smol!Steve wrangling, is pretty good at this caring-for-sick-people thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gonna Get Back to You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrettyInSoulPunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyInSoulPunk/gifts).



> My sister had chikungunya two years ago. Physically, she's one of the strongest persons I know, and that thing took her down like a bus; even now she has pains in her joints. I had Zika-like symptoms this year. They are both horrible and I would not wish them on my worst enemy.
> 
> ...maybe I would idek. But please keep yourselves mosquito-free ok?
> 
> Anyway this is for my friend ANGIEFAAAACE who gave me a prompt when I asked her for one (it's at the end). She THINKS it's a gift HAHA! It's just my evil scheme in trying to properly break into the Sam/Bucky side of things! Also there is a side of MAYBE Tony/Steve but I haven't finished Civil War because of too many emotions so I don't really know about those two.
> 
> Not beta'ed! The rating is mostly for language. There were supposed to be sexytimes, but not yet. Not yet.

"It musta been in San Juan," Sam says, curled up on his side on the examination table and trying to be brave. It probably isn't working, because Banner gives him a kind look. "Yeah. Must have been. Cause...yeah, there was that enchanter there, remember?"

"I remember," Banner answers, very soothingly. Sam keeps forgetting that he's an _actual doctor_ , and so this great bedside manner is nicely unexpected.

"Yeah." Sam rubs the side of his face against the crinkly white paper, pouting a little despite the coolness of the material against his hot skin. "Yeah, we should have been out there right after, but I was helping out in the triage area and that fucker must have got me there."

"More than likely," Banner says, and shifts aside the slender gleaming arch which had been scanning Sam's body. "The mosquito did indeed get you, I'm afraid. You've got Zika."

"I'm not gonna die, though?" It's a dumb question, but Sam is in a _lot_ of pain. It hurts to move his eyes. He feels as if every joint in his body has decided to lock up in some sort of strange protest and there are muscles that have _never_ been in pain before, not even after a mission. He is shivery and itchy. It's a dumb question, but he just needs to know.

Banner reaches out, hesitates, and then pats Sam's upper arm, two tentative touches. "Not from this. But you need rest, stay hydrated and take regular pain medication...not aspirin or ibuprofen, though. Got that?"

"Yeah." Sam blinks slowly and winces as sharp ache twists at the back of his eyes. "Got it."

"I'll ask that you be taken off the mission roster for a week or two," Banner says, but he sounds so far away. "Do you need me to help you back to your floor?"

"Nah, I'm good." Sam sits up, swings his legs over the edge of the table and just pauses there. He can't stand up.

"Sam?" Banner is on his feet now, reaching out in earnest. Sam sets his jaw and bullies his body into rising. His body trembles, but obeys.

"I'm gonna make it," he says with a watery smile, and Banner nods.

He barely makes it back to the suite he shares in the Tower with Steve and Barnes. Friday has to open the door for him, and he fairly falls through, legs like noodles.

Steve and Barnes are back from their mission, still in gear. They're mud-splattered, but not bloody and Sam gives them a very truncated nod. At the moment, Barnes is sporting the goggles but not the mask, and his face turns towards Sam as if he's marking him for eradication.

Steve gives him a wide grin. "Hey, Sam!"

"Shhhh," Sam tells him, because the loud greeting is now reverberating inside his head. "Hey, 'sup."

"You got bird flu?" Barnes grates out and _ha-ha_ , very funny. So funny, Sam can't even laugh.

"No," he tries to snap in reply but it comes out so exhausted. "I got me some Zika, son."

"Oh, gosh." Steve is so concerned, eyebrows furrowed, gaze raking up and down Sam in quick assessment. "Anything I can do?"

"Nope. I'm good." Sam tries to lift one hand in a cheerfully dismissive wave, but he has to live with a helpless flapping motion. Then, he simply concentrates on getting one foot before the other to his large bedroom. He considers taking a shower but that is too much work right now. All he wants to do is lie down, close his eyes and…

He wakes up and his room is not pitch-black. He's not sprawled right across the bed in his jeans and t-shirt and sneakers. Someone has removed his clothing, put one of of his sleeveless shirts on him and tucked him under the sheets. The lamp on one side of the bed is on, and it throws out a really comforting yellow circle of light.

Friday speaks up: "Are you awake, Sam?"

 _Yeah_ , Sam tries to say, but nothing comes out but a low croak. His throat feels as if it's full of sandpaper. 

"Okay," Friday says. "I'll call Bucky."

"Why?" Sam bursts out and then groans as pain centers all over his body wake up and begin to broadcast one single, consistent signal: _EVERYTHING IS NOT OKAY_.

Friday says, in a long-suffering tone that can only be produced by a Stark: "Because he asked me to, Sam."

Sam tried to ponder this, but he gives up after a few moments. He falls into a very light doze and then wakes up again when the door clicks open. Barnes glides in with that eerie silence of his. Sam wants to mock him about watching out for the Ghostbusters, cause they'd definitely be after a spook like him, but he can't seem to get all of that out. He settles for chuckling very weakly, so he won't jostle himself too much; he'll taunt Barnes at a later date.

"What," he asks Barnes, who is carrying a very large tray balanced on the palm of his metal hand. Barnes has on his usual at home wear: a long-sleeved blue t-shirt, plaid pajama pants that look really soft and blue fleece-covered slippers. Barnes is _all about_ keeping warm and being comfy, and there is no-one in the Tower who has the heart to laugh at a former HYDRA-brainwashed assassin in Captain America slippers.

...well, Sam has. At least twice. Okay, every time. Besides, it's not like as if Barnes doesn't have at the very least two blades strapped somewhere under all that coziness. If any villain had the gall to attack the Tower and encountered the Winter Soldier all sweet in his jammies, they'd probably die laughing at the sight. It would be a really good distraction from their imminent doom.

"Orange juice. Chicken soup," Barnes says and Sam feels his expression arrange into perplexed lines. "Painkillers." Barnes sets the tray down on the side of the bed and straightens up, staring at Sam. "Come on, sit up, Wilson. Don't make me pour this hot soup down your throat."

"What," Sam repeats, but he's struggling to wriggle back and lift his torso up. Wow, he is like a newborn kitten right now. He glares up at Barnes, expecting mockery, but Barnes' face is placid.

"Want some help?" he asks, even though his arms are folded over his broad chest. Sam considers telling him to fuck off. Then, he dips his head in one miserable nod. Barnes reaches out and slides his hands under Sam's armpits; his metal hand is so awesomely cool against Sam's feverish skin. The other hand isn't bad either, but then Barnes runs very cold.

Gently and a minimum of effort, he eases Sam up and then shifts him back so that he's reclined against the pillows. Sam feels all sorts of weird; he's just a few inches shorter than Barnes and he's not light, but Barnes had just moved him as if he was a bag of feathers. Sam has...a thing for unassuming strength. 

Barnes sits on the side of the bed and picks up the tray; he puts it on Sam's lap, making sure the little legs are positioned in a stable fashion. "Eat up," he commands and Sam sighs. The soup looks watery and he can't smell it so well, but when he takes up a shaky spoonful and puts in his mouth, it's really flavourful. _Really_ warm and good.

He manages at least half of the small bowl, getting in some carrots and chicken, and washes down the painkillers with the juice. Barnes had reassured him that they weren't ibuprofen.

"I need to brush my teeth," Sam says, settling back as Barnes picks up the tray and puts it down on the floor. His belly is full and warm and the pain, while still apparent, is not writing large letters of agony all over his body.

"You'll live one day without fluoride," Barnes says. Sam wants to say that Barnes lives every day without fluoride, but that's not true because his breath is minty-fresh as he leans over and tugs on Sam's pillow. Sam feels his head loll to one side, drowsy and he lets his eyelids do what they've been fighting to for the past four minutes. They slide shut, and he feels a chilly hand press against his brow, resting there for quite some time.

"You got a thermometer in that arm, man?" he asks...or he _thinks_ he asks. Barnes chuckles, so maybe he really had spoken out loud. He doesn't hear the answer, but it's more than likely _yeah, you want it up your ass_?

Hehe.

Barnes wakes him up twice: once because he's checking Sam's temperature again, and he puts a cool cloth on Sam's forehead, like when Sam's granny did when he was a kid, using a hanky soaked in rubbing alcohol; and then, when the sky is becoming that washed-out but newly fresh grey of dawn, he's woken again for another round of painkillers.

"Hey, you got a thermometer in that arm?" Sam asks the second time (or the first? He's still not sure) as he's drowsing off once more. He chuckles when Barnes says, very drily, "I done asked you if you wanted it up the ass."

Nice. "Yeah, but can you give it up the ass, is what I want to know?" Sam wonders and smirks at the silence.

"I can give it," Barnes finally says. "But I'm sure you can't take it."

"Bah." Sam snuggles down even more, trying and failing to grasp that fleeting, pleased thought about being cared for, by _Barnes_. "When I'm better, we'll see what you got."

"Whatever," Barnes says. "Are you actually sick, though? I mean, your eyes looked pretty red just now, you could just be high or something."

"You already gave me soup, my friend," Sam tells him. "You _accept_ that I'm sick. No going back."

There's a reply, a low rumble of speech. Sam falls asleep in the middle of it, and that's now an official tactic to employ when arguing. He likes it. He'll do it again, just to piss off Barnes.

It's maybe very late morning or early afternoon when he finally crawls out of bed and tries to brush the fuzzy, sour taste out of his mouth. The sourness goes but the fuzziness stays. He takes the most listless shower ever, but the lukewarm water feels nice, even though he can't raise his arms to get to his shoulders. Clean shoulders are overrated, anyway. He gets to the kitchen by a repeating sequence of two wavering steps and then one long slide against one wall of the wide corridor, Friday's concerned voice following him along the way.

He gets to the kitchen assigned to this floor and gapes with bleary eyes at Bucky at the stove, stirring a large, black pot like the world's most intimidating witch; Steve is on one end of the eating counter, flipping through a magazine and looking as if he isn't feeling off-kilter at the fact that Stark is at the other end.

Stark, for his part, seems as if he enjoys making Steve uncomfortable. They've all come a far way from those blasted Accords, and Stark had offered his fancy brain machine to treat Barnes' triggers and memories. Still, there seems to be something shaky between Steve and Stark, something that makes Stark take a stroll all the way from his workshop and sit at this kitchen island, staring at Steve with a little hard smirk. Steve takes it with the air of a prisoner accepting their sentence.

"Hey-hey-hey," Stark says now, tilting his head to give Sam a warm smile. Stark actually has nice smiles, he's a handsome dude, but when he interacts with Steve, he smiles like a shark. "Cured of your bird flu yet?"

"That's not even funny," Sam complains and then scowls at the bowl that's placed in front of him. It looks like a bowl of curds and whey, a boiled egg cut in two and set atop. Wait, it's...it's _rice_. "What the _hell_ \--"

"Congee," Barnes says, and he sets a bowl in front of Steve. He pauses, and slowly places another in front of Stark too. Stark stares into it as if there's a mechanical problem under his egg. "It's good for you."

"It's for dinner, though!" Sam drinks it only because the soup last night had been good, like _mama's-cooking_ good, and the congee is just as great. "It's a lucky thing you can cook," he grumbles into his fourth spoonful, slumped down on one side because he's still feeling limp all over.

"Congee is breakfast for a lot of people," Barnes lectures, coming over with his own bowl; he sits so that he places Steve between himself and Stark, head bent forward so that his long hair obscures his face as he eats. If Sam had the strength right now, he'd reach across and tug it back. Smooth it behind Barnes' stupid ears.

"You liked the soup last night?" Steve asks, mostly to distract them all from the way Stark is stirring his congee, making the spoon scrape the bottom of the bowl. "Bucky made it...he remembered the recipe from my ma." Steve's face is bright; he loves it when Barnes remembers something, _anything_. It's like Christmas to him when that happens.

Sam nods. "It was really good," and sees Barnes hunch over even more. Stark takes a wary sip of his congee and raises his eyebrows before continuing to eat. 

"He used to make it all the time for me," Steve says, his gaze drifting over to Stark being silent and eating food in their kitchen. 

"Cause you were sick all the time," Barnes rumbled. "Every other week, something else." His accent dips and shifts, a peculiarity that never fails to fire up intrigue in Sam. He's heard Barnes shift into at least five languages, drawing surprised, delighted expressions from those he speaks with. Sam can only guess that his accent is good in all those dialects; but in English, he never seems to fix on just one. 

"You like taking care of people, huh," Stark says and it _should_ sound like he's sneering but he's not. Barnes doesn't stiffen. He simply goes still and appears to peek at Stark from between the long strands of his hair.

After a few long beats, Barnes says, "Yeah. Taking care of people feels good."

Stark hums, fairly shovels the rest of his congee down his throat and slides off the stool. "I gotta check your arm later, Barnes," he says when he's almost out the door. "Sam, get better soon. Barton is getting all cranky on us." He doesn't bid any farewell to Steve, who seems torn between disappointment and relief.

Later, when Sam curls back into bed and Barnes is hovering, Sam asks, "You remember taking care of Steve?" He shudders and scowls down at his body as if it has betrayed him. It is, fundamentally.

"Oh, yeah." Barnes sounds absent as he checks Sam's temperature with his hand. "He never wanted to keep still. Once I found him walking down the stairs, in his nightshirt. He said he had to go to work. Ridiculous little fuck."

Sam laughs, and then his teeth chatter as he shivers once more. Barnes' hand cups his cheek and then rests on his shoulder. The shaking becomes seismic, and Barnes says, "For fuck's sake," as he toes off his slippers and gets into bed, right under the covers, with Sam.

"Okay," Sam tries to say between shakes, as Barnes gathers him close. "Okay. This. Is nice." His shivering seems to be melting away, even though Barnes doesn't put off that much body-heat. 

"Hope I don't pick up your germs," Barnes says in the way a person would if they're asked to retrieve a gross rag from the floor, except he's still cuddling Sam. "You can pick up Zika through sex, you know."

"Are you telling me that your supersoldier immune system can be compromised?" Sam demands sleepily. "Or….wait, you saying that you want to have sex with me?" Apparently, he has a special strain of the virus that is making his mouth go into overdrive.

Barnes says, "Well, not _now_ , you're contagious," and Sam shivers and laughs.

"Yeah, okay," he mutters and fights against sleep enough to say, "I'll be better soon, man. I'mma get back to you."

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** _Okay I had this idea the other day, which I would love to read. (based on a conversation with a friend) So imagine if Sam gets sick one day. Nothing life threatening - flu, maybe? - but it makes Bucky worry because he flashes back to all the times Steve got really sick when they were younger. I was thinking this would be set post CW, so they still have this snarky relationship yet, suddenly Bucky is worried about Sam and wants to take care of him. :D (and obviously Bucky can't get sick now so bring on all the cuddles!) So it could be just some cute and fluffy h/c but of course you could always throw in some sexy times when Sam is better. ;)_


End file.
